


A Library of Longings

by Jinxed_Ink



Series: Through the Cracks [1]
Category: Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxed_Ink/pseuds/Jinxed_Ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You should know that he looks at you, too.”<br/>My breath catches in my throat. “I - what? When?”<br/>She laughs softly. “Whenever you’re looking the other way.”</p><p>Beware: mild spoilers for the plot of "Magnus Chase and the Sword of Summer".</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Library of Longings

Hearthstone’s has lovely hands. Pale, and soft and smooth, my mother herself must have smiled down upon them, to give them such beauty. Or perhaps it was Bragi, who lent them grace and lightness. Hands like his were made to run across a piano, or to curl around a paintbrush. They were made to shape worlds. 

I can’t help but stare at them now, as his long, graceful fingers fiddle with a trinket or another; a cracked runestone, or a scrap of fabric, or a needle. I’m too far away to tell. 

“Blitz? You still with me?” Sam is smiling at me, one eyebrow raised. She looks from me to Hearthstone, something bright and knowing on her face. 

I clear my throat. “Of course!” We were talking about the design for her new hijab, weren’t we? Before I got distracted by my (absolutely non-creepy and non-obsessive) staring at my best friend. “How about yellow silk?” I ask, holding up the fabric to her face, then immediately pull it away, grimacing. “Never mind, it really doesn’t work with your hair.”

Sam’s mouth twitches. “We had already settled on blue. Honestly, Blitz, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Of course, I’m just tired!” I force cheer into my voice, “It’s the heat, dwarves aren’t made for the Boston summer.”

“You are made to work on forges”, she says, deadpan, her eyebrow arched so high it’s practically disappearing beyond her hairline. For a child of the god of lies, she’s remarkably set upon never letting anybody get away with any untruth. Ever. 

“I wasn’t”, I say sourly, “made to work on forges.” Then, before she has a chance to reply, I change the subject. “And now explain why turquoise chiffon isn’t a practical choice for a Valkyrie.” 

“It’s too flimsy”, she says immediately, her eyes narrowing. 

“I could strengthen it” I point out. It feels good to be the one poking holes in her lies, for a change.

“No chiffon.” Her voice is firm. 

“Why not? It would enhance your complexion.”

She presses her mouth into a flat line, her eyes blazing. 

I backtrack immediately. “Fine, no chiffon. What fabric, then?”

She smiles, and it casts her whole face in light. “Cotton?” she asks hopefully. 

“Absolutely not.” 

Sam sighs, her shoulders slumping. “How about silk?”

I pause, considering. “I think I can work with silk”, I say, finally, “I have a gorgeous cerulean one lying around here somewhere, with golden beads…”

She groans and buries her face in her hands. “Oh, gods. Promise me you won’t do something too showy.”

I grumble at that. I can see her peeking at me through her fingers, and there’s a glimmer dancing in her eyes. Her protests are mostly for show, I think. But she’s a daughter of Loki, contrary by blood, and it must be good for her to indulge her nature, now that it’s harmless.

“What are your feelings on midnight blue?” I ask, skimming the different scraps of cloth until I find what I am looking for: the color is deep and rich and there are subtle threads of silver woven throughout the fabric. It twinkles under the light, but only the smallest amount.

Sam gasps, her fingers moving to rest against the silk. “It’s beautiful”, she breathes, “Blitz, you’re a genious.”

I clear my throat, fighting down a sudden rush of embarrassment. “Well, I try.” 

She laughs. “It’s settled, then”, she says brightly, getting up. “I’ve got to go. My family will worry.”

As Sam gathers her things to leave, I glance back at Hearthstone. I can’t help it, it’s like I’m a compass and he’s true north. He’s curled up on the sleek, black leather loveseat I have put at the front of my shop (it’s human-made, so it technically doesn’t have a name, but I like to call it Freddy). He hasn’t even taken off his shoes, and I’ll go and scold him for sullying my furniture. 

In a minute. 

For now, his eyes are closed, his head thrown back against the armrest, exposing the pale column of his throat, the tender spot where his neck melts into his chest. Sometimes, on the interval between dream and wakefulness, when I am at my boldest, I have looked at him, and thought about kissing him there, and feeling the beat of his heart beneath my lips. 

Sam makes a soft noise at the back of her throat. When I turn to face her, there’s a look in her eyes I can’t quite puzzle out - affection and understanding and something like sadness, or maybe wishfulness, all rolled up in one. “Love is hard, isn’t it?”

I think about denying it, but she’s obviously seen right through me. “The hardest”, I say softly. 

“I’m hopeless at figuring out my own relationship, and your mother’s the goddess of love”, she says, amusement creeping into her tone, “so I probably shouldn’t be the one dispensing advice here, but you should know that he looks at you, too.”

My breath catches in my throat. “I - what? When?”

She laughs softly. “Whenever you’re looking the other way.”

I don’t know what to say to that, and she must read it on my face, because she laughs again and leans down to embrace me, briefly. “Think about it”, she says, and hoists her bag over he shoulder and leaves. 

I walk over to Hearthstone, and drop down next to him on the loveseat. I shove rudely at his legs. “Wake up”, I say, even though I know it’s useless. He can’t hear me.

He stirs, blinking blearily. He looks confused. I absolutely do not find it adorable. I refuse.

“You’re tracking mud all over Freddie”, I tell him. Which may be a bit of an overstatement. Just a bit.

He smiles, and it looks like the dawning sun: heart-achingly beautiful and bright and absolutely deadly. _Sorry_ , he signs, though he doesn’t look sorry, not one bit.

“You’d better be”, I grumble. Even sitting down, I’m not tall enough to press my shoulder against his, so when I lean against him, it’s more of a press of shoulder against forearm. And it should feel awkward, but somehow, it doesn’t. It feels like we fit perfectly together, and I can’t tell if it’s wishful thinking or not, not anymore. 

He grins, unrepentant, and my heart skips a beat. I want so badly to press him down onto the loveseat and kiss him senseless. 

But it would take courage, for that. And I may have faced the Fenris wolf, and the Squirrel and the Black One himself, but in this, I am a coward.

So I let our fingers tangle together, just a bit, just enough that it looks casual, and I lean into him, and I bask in the giddy, tentative happiness that Sam’s words have brought, even though I can’t quite bring myself to believe them yet.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant to involve a lot less Sam, but she snuck her way in somehow. Also, I'm tentatively considering writing a sequel or a companion piece in which they actually get together. 
> 
> For those of you who are wondering, Bragi was the Norse god of poetry and music, I hope he'll show up in the next books, he's very nice (especially compared to the rest of the Aesir).


End file.
